Not sure what keeps my eyes still open, maybe I accidentally ordered the Gilmore-size coffee again, perhaps it’s the same reason Rory could marathon a book and just refusing to hit pause.
Inspired by the fear of being average. The face card with my red lips doesn’t swipe, it signs checks. Consider this a reminder that average was never on my mood board; serving was always the standard. Pretty is the appetizer, iconic is the main course.
My nerves thought it was about to clock me, but I said, “You’re not on my call sheet.” Taejun knew it; that’s why he turned the shooting into a Vogue-meets-sitcom spread instead of a pity runway.
I said mark my words, but they marked my image instead—front and center on an album. Headlines were never the destination; they were just the prologue. Somewhere along the way, it transformed into an album cover—a part of me locked in music, my presence recorded in every track.
In the infinity of space—and so does my patience, but only after coffee. Morning roll call with my staff, with my daily ritual in hand. While the world scrambles for energy, I sip mine with shades on, serving face and finesse.
The Louvre staircase? It’s not just architecture—it’s a runway, and I walked like I had directors shouting “Cut! Perfect!”. One minute I’m cruising the streets on a bike in a white dress, next I’m side-eyeing the Metro steps. I’m not just visiting Paris, I’m rewriting it.
Had so many episodes; if I talked about Paris—it’d be a whole box set. Think 𝘊𝘢𝘴𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘢 drama with a dash of 𝘉𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 charm, but cut sharper with 𝘉𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘦 𝘥𝘦 𝘑𝘰𝘶𝘳 mischief, like I was stealing scenes straight from a classic reel.
I’m the script and the spotlight, but I don’t just run the script, I also run the streets—Paris just turned the pavement into the front row. And even on the streets, I’ll still serve with fashion on top. Paris just gave me better lighting to do it.
Oh well, Paris always caught me right on time. Think Audrey Hepburn in Sabrina but with less innocence and more bite. I’m living a director’s cut in couture—plot twist, I don’t die, I just get better lighting and another glass of champagne.
Always catch me in the chaos or the champagne moments, never in the dull in-between. Not just the highlight—the main event, the whole meal, and the afterparty, and a little shade for dessert. And yes, I might be talking about the food.. or maybe not. Don’t get it twisted.
The gun in my lips, not of steel but of fire—a kiss that could shatter your reason and blow your mind apart. You ain’t got no choice when it comes to my presence unless it’s bending to your soul.
Pardon my Keira Knightley spirits for constantly serving you with what you’ve always been longing for. You don’t tell me, but don’t you think I hear you out? I cannot tease you about that. What a shame, for I dearly love it.
Who said that picking a destination for summer was a bed of roses for you to get? Somewhere and somehow, the view was a 10/10. Venture where no one fraternity dares to go. Is this story line signed and sealed? Maybe.
